Friday, November 30, 2007

I remember the old days,when it took some effortfor me to insult people,when I had to thinkfor a minute beforeI could do or saysomething offensive.

I used to be a nice guy,I was always politein thought and actand everyone loved me for it,deemed me charming, chivalrous, suave.

Nowadays I fart a lotand pick my nose at dinner.I stare at peoplewith an ugly stare,pick fights with the nicest people.Every other word out of my mouthis "fuck" or "bitch" or "asshole"or "fuck you, you asshole bitch."

Still some people love me.They know that with themI'm joking when I saythey've got shit for eyeballsand piss for blood.They think my fartsare a quaint manifestationof my grand eccentricity.

As for the rest of you,I'm being truthful with my insults.My manners towards you are atrociousbecause I just don't carefor you.

But when you see meglaring at some nunas I piss on the sidewalkin the late afternoonor early eveningin the middle of a crowd of peoplejust getting off from work,don't feel sorry for meand don't hold your heads up high with disdain,thinking there's somethingwrong with me.

Just rememberthat in a better worldI'd be a role model, a saint.I'd be the guru with bloodshot eyes,the oracle with a six packyou turn toin times of needand in times of trouble,the one who'll tell youwhere you can go,who you should fuck,and where you can shove it.

And as you walk through the wilderness of this worldlet my frank words and ways sustain you.Let them be your bedlam and your vanity,your guiding light and your exquisite confusion.

Because although you may end upsmelling just as bad as I doyou'll become truly refined,truly wise,and truly bright,and this world will be a better placebecause of it.

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

The first detective in a cast of thousandsdoing time considering all the true masters.Through the convergence of forces one creates the firstbrownstone skyscrapers while subway trains divergeand disappear completely in subterranean snowstorms.You live by sounds and images. The East Riversends you messages you turn from picturesinto words and back again. The world runs us over into cover,tears the eyelids from our eyes. You take it all in, standingout in the open like a bridge, defying both gravity and friction,the time which will always be lost.

Thursday, March 22, 2007

To stand forever in the middle, or bepart of the usual episodes of amnesia.Time in the dark, I find stones to throw, like wordsspoken in my sleep. You can’t be afraid of thunder,though I, at times, fear for my public image.It’s easy prey for change, not being safe orsecure in a world of falling water. Sterlingsilver cups, journeys up or down the river.The meaning still isn’t clear, though in the endit doesn’t matter, chance being of stronger substancethan intention, and swimming a way of life.

This is for the space between words, the slow fall of mountainsleaving the remains of giants. There are wars we rememberthat took place in our back yards, days when we thoughtwe moved backwards. The storyline has only been suggested,through hints of color, and weather mentioned in passing.Connections are left unclear, as in dreams you forget,and people whose faces you can’t see but whose breathyou can hear and almost feel. The wind used to takeits time in coming, used to hide only to catch us unawares,keeping the doors shut tight in uneasy sleep. The symphonyit brings rises slowly to an epic pitch, and falls, without shattering.

Thursday, March 8, 2007

lost in an ocean of shitI'd gotten myselfin a discussionof Fascismwith an ex-Army manfrom Chicago at this bar.He didn't like the waythe word got tossed around,having something specific in mind.I was tryingto throw the meaning everywhere,from politics and lawon down to the Oriental practice of foot bindingand the excessive use of make upby women who aren't hookers.All the time my eyes wereon the barmaid's hips whichwere squeezed into these tight blackspandex pants.

I knew I was too drunkto be talking about anythingand too drunk to bethinkingabout anything but sex.I also knew I wastoo drunk to doanything reasonable about it,so I paid,gave the barmaid a nice tip,said goodbye toeveryone andleft.

I got home,walked upstairs,and threw upall over the bookson the floor ofmy room.There were somegood ones there,some of whichI hadn't read yet.I picked them up,wiped them offwith a dirty tee shirt,threw the shirt in the trash,and went to sleep,ready for nightmaresfilled with Nazisand no women,all becauselife is too shortto be spentlooking forpeace of mind.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

The way you spread yourpussy lips and liftyour right breast tolick your nipple likean autoerotic slutmakes me love youthat much more.When a woman looksas wet and hot as youthere's no need forpoise, elegance, class,the ability to speakseven languages fluently,and an understanding ofthe dynamic involved in the transitionfrom early Renaissance to Baroque art.Next to you the subtle beautyof a Vogue fashion modellooking off toward the horizonsof some distant cityas she takes a dragfrom a Dunhill cigarettebecomes nothing buta pretentious, flat-chested,save the whales,save the rain forest bore.

You're the woman I want,the woman with beer, tobaccoand blow jobs on her breath;the woman who's toohorny to care,too drunk to make me use a condom,and too sweaty to make me spoon with herthe rest of the night;the woman who'll take me home,fuck me, then ask me to leavebefore I'm able to find both my socks;the woman who doesn't need to hearthe words "I'll call you"or "j'ai un grand crayon, Isabella"and what's more doesn't want to.

You're the woman I want to marry,the woman I want to bearand raise my children,the woman I want to growold and fat and bald within a fourth floor walkupon First Avenue and Second in Manhattan;the woman whose underwearI want to see lyingon the floor in the morningwith a few pubic hairsstuck in the waistbandand an odd looking stainthat I just can't resist from sniffing.

If you are coming down throughthe narrows of the East Riverpast the Con Ed plant on FDR Drive,please let me know beforehand,and I will come out to meet you as far asAvenue D and Tenth Street. - Jose Padua-------------------------------------------------------------------------------Originally published in Pink Pages, #9, 1996.

NYDC BLUES: How I Tried To Escape The Sick World Of Poetry (1995)

New York: it was where I did my first poetry slam. It was where I began to get my work published regularly. It was where I first appeared on national television. It was where I fell truly in love for the first time. It was where for the first time in my life I felt I was in a city where I belonged. It was also where, after having cast off the last vestiges of my youthful insanity, I vowed to give up poetry completely.

About Me

José Padua’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Bomb, Salon.com, Exquisite Corpse, Another Chicago Magazine, Unbearables, Crimes of the Beats, Up is Up, but So Is Down: New York's Downtown Literary Scene, 1974-1992, and many other journals and anthologies. He has also written features and reviews for NYPress, Washington City Paper, the Brooklyn Rail and the New York Times. He has read his work at the Lollapalooza Festival, CBGBs, the Knitting Factory, the Black Cat Club, the Public Theater, the Washington Project for the Arts, and many other venues.